THE  RUBAIYAT  OF 


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GELETT    BURGESS 


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http://www.archive.org/details/cayennerubaiyatoOOburgrich 


THE   RUBAIYAT 

OF 

OMAR  CAYENNE 


THE     RUBAIYAT    OF 

OMAR  CAYENNE 


BY 

GELETT  BURGESS 


NEW    YORK 
FREDERICK  A   STOKES  COMPANY 

Publishers 


Copyright,    1904, 

BY 

Gelett  Burgess 
Published  December,  ig04 


THE      RUBAIYAT 

OF 

OMAR    C AYENN  E 


I 

Wake!    For  the  Hack  can  scatter  into  flight 
Shakespere  and  Dante  in  a  single  Night ! 

The  Penny-a-liner  is  Abroad,  and  strikes 
Our  Modern  Literature  with  blithering  Blight. 


II 

Before  Historical  Romances  died, 
Methought  a  Voice  from  Art's  Olympus  cried, 
**  When  all  Dumas  and  Scott  is  still  for  Sale, 
Why  nod  o'er  drowsy  Tales,  by  Tyros  tried  ?  " 


919822 


THE     RUBAIYAT    OF 


III 

A  cock-sure  Crew  with  Names  ne'er  heard  before 
Greedily  shouted — "  Open  then  the  Door! 

You  know  how  little  StufE  is  going  to  live, 
But  where  it  came  from  there  is  plenty  More." 


IV 

Now  the  New  Year  reviving  old  Desires, 
The  Artist  poor  to  Calendars  aspires, 

But  of  the  Stuff  the  Publisher  puts  out 
Most  in  the  Paper  Basket  soon  suspires. 


Harum  indeed  is  gone,  and  Lady  Rose, 
And  Janice  Meredith,  where  no  one  knows; 

But  still  the  Author  gushes  overtime, 
And  many  a  Poet  babbles  on  in  Prose. 


VI 

Aldrich's  lips  are  locked ;  but  people  buy 
High-piping  Authoresses,  boomed  sky-high. 

"  How  Fine !  " — the  Publisher  cries  to  the  Mob, 
That  monumental  Cheek  to  justify. 


OMAR      CAYENNE 


VII 

Come,  fill  the  Purse,  to  Publishers,  this  Spring, 
Your  Manuscripts  of  paltry  Passion  bring: 

The  New  York  Times  has  oft  a  little  Way 
Of  praising — let  The  Times  your  praises  sing. 


VIII 

Whether  by  Century  or  Doubleday, 
Whether  Macmillan  or  the  Harpers  pay, 

The  Publisher  prints  new  books  every  Year; 
The  Critics  will  keep  Busy,  anyway! 


IX 

Each  Morn  a  thousand  Volumes  brings,  you  say; 
Yes,  but  who  reads  the  Books  of  Yesterday? 

And  this  first  Autumn  List  that  brings  the  New 
Shall  take  The  Pit  and  Mrs.  Wiggs  away. 


Well,  let  It  take  them!    What,  are  we  not  through 
With  Richard  Calmady  and  Emmy  Lou? 

Let  Ade  and  Dooley  guy  us  as  they  will. 
Or  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox — heed  not  you. 


THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XI 

With  me  despise  this  kind  of  Fiction  rude 
That  just  divides  the  Rotten  from  the  Good, 

Where  names  of  Poe  and  Dickens  are  forgot- 
And  Peace  to  Thackeray  with  his  giant  Brood ! 


XII 

A  Book  of  Limericks — Nonsense,  anyhow-— 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  the  Purple  Cow 

Beside  me  singing  on  Fifth  Avenue — 
Ah,  this  were  Modern  Literature  enow! 


XIII 

Some  for  the  stories  of  The  World ;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Boston  Transcript  till  it  come; 
Ah,  take  The  Sun,  and  let  The  Herald  go, 
Nor  heed  the  Yellow  Journalistic  scum! 


XIV 

Look  to  the  blowing  Advertiser — "  Lo, 
Booming's  the  way,"  he  says,  "  to  make  Books  go! 

I  advertise  until  I've  drained  my  Purse, 
And  huge  Editions  on  the  Market  throw," 


OMAR     CAYENNE 


XV 

And  those  who  made  a  Mint  off  Miss  MacLane, 

And  those  who  shuddered  at  her  Jests  profane, 

Alike  consigned  her  to  Oblivion, 
And  buried  once,  would  not  dig  up  again. 


XVI 

Anthony  Hope  men  set  their  hearts  upon — 
Like  Conan  Doyle  he  prospered;  and  anon, 

Remained  unopened  on  the  dusty  Shelf, 
Delighting  us  an  Hour — and  then  was  gone. 


xvn. 

Think,  in  this  gaudy  monthly  Magazine 
Whose  Covers  are  Soapette  and  Breakfastine, 

How  Author  after  Author  with  his  Tale 
Fills  his  fool  Pages,  and  no  more  is  seen. 


XVHI 

They  say  that  now  Miss  Myra  Kelly  reaps 
Rewards  that  Howells  used  to  have  for  Keeps: 

And  Seton,  that  great  Hunter  of  Wild  Beasts 
Has  Coin  ahead;  Cash  comes  to  him  in  Heaps! 


10  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XIX 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  Prose  is  read 
So  good  as  that  by  Advertising  bred, 

And  every  Verse  Sapolian  poets  sing 
Brings  laurel  wreaths  once  twin'd  for  Spenser's  head. 


XX 

And  this  audacious  Author,  young  and  green 

In  Smart  Set — surely  you  know  whom  I  mean — 

Ah,  look  upon  him  lightly !  for  who  knows 
But  once  in  Lippincott's  he  wrote  unseen  I 


XXI 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  write  the  Book  that  clears 
To-day  of  dreary  Debt  and  sad  Arrears ; 

To-morrow! — ^Why,  To-morrow  I  may  see 
My  Nonsense  popular  as  Edward  Lear's. 


XXII 

For  some  we've  read,  the  month's  Six  Selling  Best 
The  Bookman  scored  with  elephantine  Jest, 

Have  sold  a  half  a  Million  in  a  Year, 
Yet  no  one  ever  heard  of  them,  out  West ! 


OMAR      CAYENNE 


XXIII 


And  we,  that  now  within  the  Editor's  Room 
Make  merry  while  we  have  our  little  Boom, 

Ourselves  must  we  give  way  to  next  month's  Set — 
Girls  with  Three  Names,  who  know  not  Who  from 
Whom! 

XXIV 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  do, 
Before  our  Royalties  have  vanished,  too. 

Book  after  Book,  and  under  Book  to  lie, 
Sans  Page,  sans  Cover,  Reader — or  Review! 


XXV 

Alike  for  those  who  for  To-day  have  Shame, 

And  those  who  strive  for  some  To-morrow^s  Fame, 

A  Critic  from  anonymous  Darkness  cries, 
"  Fools,  your  Reward  will  fool  you,  just  the  Same !  ** 


XXVI 

Why,  e'en  Marie  Corelli,  who  discuss'd 
Of  the  Two  Worlds  so  learnedly,  is  thrust 

Like  Elbert  Hubbard  forth;  her  Words  to  Scorn 
Are  scattered,  and  her  Books  by  Critics  cussed. 


iz  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XXVII 

Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  peruse 
James,  Meredith  and  Hardy — but  to  lose 

My  Reason,  trying  to  make  Head  or  Tail ; 
The  more  I  read,  the  more  did  they  confuse. 


XXVIII 

With  them  the  Germs  of  Madness  did  I  sow, 

And  with  "  Two  Magics  ''  sought  to  make  it  grow; 

Yet  this  was  all  the  Answer  that  I  found — 
"  What  it  is  all  about,  I  do  not  know!  " 


XXIX 

Into  the  Library,  and  Why  not  knowing, 
Nor  What  I  Want,  I  find  myself  a-going; 

And  out  of  it,  with  Nothing  fit  to  Read — 
Such  is  the  Catalogue's  anaemic  Showing. 


XXX 

What,  without  asking,  to  be  hypnotized 
Into  a  Sale  of  Stevenson  disguised  ? 

Oh,  many  a  page  of  Bernard  Shaw's  last  Play 
Must  drown  the  thought  of  Novels  Dramatized ! 


OMAR      CAYENNE  13 


XXXI 

Up  from  the  Country,  into  gay  Broadway 
I  came,  and  bought  a  Scribner's,  yesterday, 

And  many  a  Tale  I  read  and  understood, 
But  not  the  master-tale  of  Kipling's  "  They." 

XXXII 

There  was  a  Plot  to  which  I  found  no  Key ; 
And  Others  seem  to  be  as  Dull  as  Me; 

Some  little  talk  there  was  of  Ghosts,  and  Such, 
Then  Mrs,  Bathurst  left  me  more  at  Sea! 

XXXIII 

Kim   could    not   answer — Sherlock    Holmes   would 

fail— 
The  most  enlightened  Browningite  turn  pale 

In  futile  Wonder  and  in  blank  Dismay  ; 
Say,  is  there  ANY  Meaning  to  that  Tale? 

XXXIV 

Then  of  the  Critic,  he  who  works  behind 
The  Author's  back,  I  tried  the  Clue  to  find ; 
But  he,  too,  was  in  Darkness ;  and  I  heard 
A  Literary  Agent  say — "  They  All  are  Blind!  " 


14  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XXXV 

Then,  from  the  lips  of  Editor,  I  learn, 
"  This  Story  is  the  Kind  for  which  I  Yearn ; 
Its  Advertising  brought  us  such  Renown, 
We  jumped  Three  Hundred  Thousand,  on  that 
Turn!" 

XXXVI 

I  think  the  man  exaggerated  some 

His  increased  Circulation, — but,  I  vum! 

If  I  could  get  Two  Thousand  for  one  Tale, 
I*d  write  him  Something  that  would  simply  Hum! 

XXXVII 

For  I  remember,  shopping  by  the  way, 
I  saw  a  Novel  writ  by  Bertha  Clay; 

And  there  was  scrawled  across  its  Title-Page, 
"  This  is  the  Stuff  that  Sells — so  People  say!  " 

XXXVIII 

Listen — a  moment  listen! — Of  the  same 
Wood-pulp  on  which  is  printed  Hewlett's  Name, 

The   ''Duchess  "  Books  are  made — in  fifty  years 
They  both  will  rot  asunder — who's  to  Blame?  " 


OMAR      CAYENNE  15. 


XXXIX 

And  not  a  Book  that  from  our  Shelves  we  throw 
To  the  Salvation  Army,  but  shall  go 

To  vitiate  the  Taste  of  some  poor  Soul 
Who  can  get  nothing  else  to  read — go  Slow ! 


XL 

As  then  the  Poet  for  his  morning  Sup 
Fills  with  a  Metaphor  his  mental  Cup, 

Do  you  devoutly  read  your  Manuscripts 
That  Someone  may,  before  you  burn  them  up ! 


XLI 

Perplex'd  no  more  with  editorial  "  Nay  " 
To-morrow's  Reputation  cast  away. 

And  lose  your  College  Education  in 
The  flippant,  foolish  Fiction  of  To-day. 


XLII 

And  if  the  Bosh  you  write,  the  Trash  you  read, 
End  in  the  Garbage  Barrel — take  no  Heed; 

Think  that  you  are  no  worse  than  other  Scribes, 
Who  scribble  Stuff  to  meet  the  Public  Need. 


i6  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XLIII 

So,  when  Who's-Who  records  your  silly  Name, 
You'll  think  that  you  have  found  the  Road  to  Fame ; 

And  though  ten  thousand  other  Names  are  there, 
You'll  fancy  you're  a  Genius,  just  the  Same! 


XLIV 

Why,  if  an  Author  can  fling  Art  aside. 
And  in  a  Book  of  Balderdash  take  Pride, 

Wer't  not  a  Shame — wer't  not  a  Shame  for  him 
A  Conscientious  Novel  to  have  tried? 


XLV 

Writing's  a  Trade  where  Newspapers  pay  best ; 
LeGallienne  this  Verity  confess'd  ; 

So  join  the  Union,  like  the  rest  of  us — 
Who  strikes  for  Art  is  looked  at  as  a  Jest. 


XLVI 

And  fear  not,  if  the  Editor  refuse 

Your  work,  he  has  no  more  from  which  to  choose ; 

The  Literary  Microbe  shall  bring  forth 
Millions  of  Manuscripts  too  bad  to  use. 


OMAR      CAYENNE  17 


XLVII 

When  Fitch's  Comedies  have  all  gone  past, 
Oh,  the  long  Time   Pinero's  plays  shall  last, 

Which  of  Belasco's  little  Triumphs  heed 
As  Frohman's  Self  should  heed  a  Bowery  Cast ! 

XLVIII 

A  Moment's  Halt — Pray  see  this  charming,  chaste 
Ladies'    Home    Journal — "  On    the    New    Shirt 
Waist  "— 
"  Advice  to  Girls,"  and  so  forth — here  is  reach'd 
The  Nothing  women  yearn  for,  undebased ! 

XLIX 

Would  you  a  hurried  Lunch  Hour  wish  to  spend 
About  THE  SECRET — hearken  to  me,  Friend ! 

The  Editors  themselves  must  guess  their  Way— 
And  on  their  Wives'  and  Sisters'  Hints  depend ! 


A  Hair  perhaps  divides  the  Grood  from  Bad ; 
And  Bok  himself  a  Lot  of  Trouble  had 

Before  he  found  Stenographers  were  Wise — 
Then,  as  they  laughed  or  wept,  his  Soul  was  glad. 


ift  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


LI 

The  Woman's  Touch  runs  through  our  Magazines ; 
For  her  the  Home-and-Mother  Tale,  and  Scenes 

Of  Love-and- Action,  Happy  at  the  End — 
The  same  old  Plots,  the  same  old  Ways  and  Means. 


LH 

The  Theme  once  guessed,  the  Tale's  as  good  as  told, 
Though  Dialect  and  Local  Color  mould; 

This  Style  will  last  throughout  Eternity, 
While  Women  buy  our  Books — if  Books  are  sold. 


LHI 

But  if,  in  spite  of  this,  you  build  a  Plot 
Which  these  immortal  Elements  has  not, 

You  gaze  To-day  upon  a  Slip,  which  reads: 
"  The  Editor  Regrets  "—and  such-like  Rot. 


LIV 

Waste  not  your  Ink,  and  don't  attempt  to  use 
That  Subtle  Touch  which  Editors  refuse; 

Better  be  jocund  at  two  cents  a  word 
Than,  starving,  court  an  ill-requited  Muse! 


OMAR      CAYENNE  ^9 


LV 

You  know,  my  Friends,  IVe  done  with  Purple  Cows, 
And  long  to  sober  Fiction  paid  my  Vows ; 

Spontaneous  Glee  is  mighty  hard  to  Sell — 
'Twas  Carolyn  Wells  that  shot  across  my  Bows. 


LVI 

For  Stuff  and  Nonsense  being  in  my  Line, 
As  Nonsense  modern  Fiction  I  define; 

But  of  the  sort  that  one  would  care  for,  I 
Can  find  but  Little — and  that  Little's  mine ! 


LVII 

Ah,  but  this  wholesale  Satire,  you  may  say, 
Makes  me  pretend  to  be  a  Critic — Nay! 

Rather  be  roasted  than  to  roast,  say  I ; 
And  I  have  been  well  roasted,  by  the  way! 


LVIII 

And  lately,  in  a  Studio,  a  Miss 

Sat  smiling  o'er  a  Book — and  it  was  this: 

"  The  Pipes  of  Pan  " — she  showed  it  me,  and  read, 
Bidding  me  pay  attention — it  was  Bliss! 


TO  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


LIX 

Bliss  Carman,  who  with  genius  absolute, 
My  poor  satiric  Logic  can  confute; 

The  only  Poet  who,  in  modern  Days, 
His  Poems  can  to  clinking  Gold  transmute ! 


LX 

The  vagrant  Singer,  how  does  he,  good  Lord, 
Compete  with  such  a  money-making  Horde 

Of  tinsel  rhymesters  that  infest  the  Shops? 
They  say  he  makes  enough  to  pay  his  Board ! 


LXI 

Why,  be  our  Talent  truly  Art,  how  dare 
Refuse  our  Lucubrations  everywhere? 

And  if  it's  Rot,  as  our  Rejections  hint, 
God  knows  the  things  they  print  are  Rot,  for  Fair! 


Lxn 

I  must  abjure  Dramatic  Force,  I  must 
Take  the  Sub-Editor's  decree  on  Trust, 

Or,  lured  by  hope  of  selling  something  Good, 
Write  out  my  Heart — then  burn  it  in  Disgust  1 


OMAR    CAYENNE  21 


LXIII 

Oh,  threats  of  Failure,  hopes  of  Royalties  I 
One  thing  at  least  I've  sold — these  Parodies; 
One  thing  is  certain,  Satire  always  sells; 
The  Roast  is  read,  no  matter  where  it  is. 


LXIV 

Strange,  is  it  not  ?  that  of  the  Authors  who 
Publish  in  England,  such  a  mighty  Few 

Make  a  Success,  though  here  they  score  a  Hit? 
The  British  Public  knows  a  Thing  or  Two  I 


LXV 

By  Revelations  of  the  Past  we've  learn'd 

The  Yankee  Author  usually  is  burned ; 

All  of  our  Story  Writers  say  the  Same ; 
The  London  Critic  all  their  Books  have  spurn'd. 


LXVI 

I  sent  my  Agent  where  the  Buyers  dwell, 
Some  clever  Stories  of  my  own  to  sell: 

And  by  and  by  the  Agent  said  to  me, 
"  One  thing  I  sold — that's  doing  Mighty  Well !  '* 


22  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


LXVII 

So  Heaven  seems  tame  indeed  when  I  behold 
Editions  of  Five  Hundred  Thousand  sold; 
When  Clippings  show  how  Critics  scorch  me, 
then 
HelFs  Roasting  seems  comparatively  Cold! 

Lxvni 

We  are  no  other  than  a  passing  Show 

Of  clumsy  Mountebanks  that  come  and  go 

To  please  the  General  Public ;  now,  who  gave 
To  IT  the  right  to  judge,  I'd  like  to  know? 

LXIX 

Impotent  Writers  bound  to  feed  ITS  taste 
For  Literature  and  Poetry  debased ; 

Hither  and  thither  pandering  we  strive, 
And  one  by  one  our  Talents  are  disgraced. 

LXX 

The  Scribe  no  question  makes  of  Verse  or  Prose, 
But  what  the  Editor  demands  he  shows ; 

And  he  who  buys  three  thousand  words  of  Drule, 
He  knows  what  People  want — you  Bet  He  knows ! 


OMAR      CAYENNE  23 


LXXI 

The  facile  Scribbler  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
No  Rules  of  Rhetoric  bother  him  a  Bit, 

Or  lure  him  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  Grammar^s  protests  change  a  Word  of  it. 

LXXII 

And  though  you  wring  your  Hands  and  wonder 

Why 
Such  slipshod  Work  the  Magazines  will  buy, 

Don't  grumble  at  the  Editor,  for  he 
Must  serve  the  Public,  e'en  as  You  and  I. 

LXXIII 

With  Puck's  first  joke,  they  did  the  last  Life  feed. 
And  there  of  Judge's  Stories  sowed  the  Seed : 
And  the  first  jokelet  that  Joe  Miller  wrote 
The  Sunday  Comic-Section  readers  read. 

LXXIV 

Yesterday  This  Day's  popular  Song  supplants; 
To-MORROw's  will  be  even  worse,  perchance: 

Drink!    For  the  latest  Coon-Song's  floating  by: 
Drink !    Now  the  music  is  an  Indian  Dance  1 


24  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


LXXV 

I  tell  you  this — ^When,  started  from  the  Goal, 
The  first  Plantation  Ditty  'gan  to  roll 

Through  Minstrel  Troupes  and  Negro  Baritones 
In  Its  predestined  race  from  Pole  to  Pole, 


LXXVI 

The  Song  had  caught  a  Rag-Time  girls  could  shout 
And  Piano-Organs  make  a  Din  about; 

But  syncopated  Melodies  at  last 
Will  pass  away,  and  more  shall  come,  no  doubt. 


LXXVII 

And  this  I  know:  though  Vaudeville  delight, 
Musical  Comedy  can  bore  me  quite; 

One  act  of  Ibsen  from  the  Gallery  caught. 
Better  than  Daly  for  a  festal  Night ! 


LXXVIII 

What !  out  of  senseless  Show-Girls  to  evoke 
A  Drama?    Surely,  I  resent  the  Joke! 

For  me,  it  is  not  Pleasure,  but  a  Pain — 
An  Everlasting  Bore  for  decent  Folk. 


OMAR      CAYENNE  25 


LXXIX 

What,  must  the  Theatre  Manager  be  paid — 
Our  Gold  for  what  his  Carpenter  has  made — 
Must  we  pay  Stars  we  never  did  Contract, 
And  cannot  hiss  at  ? — Oh,  the  sorry  trade ! 


LXXX 

Oh  Thou,  who  dost  with  cool  sarcastic  Grin 
Scorn  the  poor  Magazine  my  Story's  in, 

Though  Thou  impute  to  ignorance  my  Work, 
I  know  how  bad  't  will  be,  ere  I  begin ! 


LXXXI 

Oh  Thou,  whose  Taste  demandeth  silly  Tales, 
Damning  the  Author  when  he  Tries  and  Fails, 
Let  us  toss  up  to  see  which  one  is  Worse — 
Thy  Fault  or  mine — Which  is  it.  Heads  or  Tails? 


26  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


LXXXII 

As,  for  his  Luncheon  Hour,  away  had  slipp'd 
The  Editor,  his  Office-Boy  I  tipp'd. 

And  once  again  before  the  Sacred  Desk 
I  stood,  surrounded  by  much  Manuscript. 


Lxxxni 

Manuscripts  of  all  Sizes,  great  and  small, 
Upon  that  Desk,  in  Numbers  to  appall! 

And  Some  looked  very  interesting;  some 
I  saw  no  Sign  of  Merit  in,  at  all. 


LXXXIV 

Said  one  among  them — "  Surely  not  in  vain 
My  Author  has  exhausted  all  his  Brain 

In  writing  me,  to  be  rejected  here — 
Fd  hate  to  have  to  be  sent  back  again  1 " 


LXXXV 

Then  said  a  Second — ''  Ne'er  a  Girl  or  Boy 
Such  Stuff  as  I  am  really  could  enjoy: 

Yet  He  who  wrote  me,  when  I  am  returned, 
Will  me  with  Curse  and  bitter  Wrath  destroy!  " 


OMAR      CAYENNE  27, 


LXXXVI 

After  a  literary  Silence  spake 

A  Manuscript  of  Henry  James's  make; 

"  They  sneer  at  me  for  being  so  occult : 
But  Kipling's  found  such  Stuff  is  going  to  Take !  " 


LXXXVII 

Whereat  some  one  of  the  typewritten  Lot — 
I  think  it  was  Cy  Brady's — waxing  hot — 

"  All  this  of  Shop  and  Patter — Tell  me  then, 
Who  buys — Who  reads — the  Stuff  that  boils  my 
Pot?" 


LXXXVIII 

"  Why,"  said  another,  "  Some  there  are  who  tell 
Of  one  who  threatens  he  will  toss  to  Hell 

The  luckless  Tales  he  marr'd  in  making — Pish! 
He's  a  blamed  Fool,  Any  Old  Thing  will  sell!  " 


LXXXIX 

"  Well,"  murmur'd  one,  "  Let  whoso  write  or  buy, 
My  words  with  long  Oblivion  are  gone  dry: 

But  bind  me  new,  let  Christy  illustrate, 
Methinks  I'd  sell  at  Christmas  time;  I'll  try!  " 


28  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XC 

So  while  the  Manuscripts  were  wisely  speaking, 
The  Editor  came  in  whom  I  was  seeking: 

And  then  they  slgnalFd  to  me,  "  Brother!  Brother! 
Yours  is  rejected!    You  had  best  be  sneaking!  " 


XCI 

Though  Carnegie  for  Literature  provide, 
He  tombs  a  Body  whence  the  Life  has  died, 

And  no  one  seems  to  turn  a  single  leaf 
Upon  the  unfrequented  Classic  side. 


XCH 

Unless  to  see  some  First  Edition  rare, 
Or  curious  styles  of  Binding  to  compare; 

Art's  True  Believers  know  their  Aldus  well, 
But  of  the  Author  bound,  are  unaware ! 


OMAR     CAYENNE-  29 


XCIII 

Indeed,  Rare  Books  that  they  have  yeam'd  for  long 
Have  done  their  Literary  Taste  much  wrong: 

Reprints  of  Burton  will  not  sell  to-day 
(I  mean  the  stupid  Burton)  for  a  Song  I 


XCIV 

Indeed,  such  First  Editions  oft  before 
I  envied,  but  they  proved  to  be  a  Bore. 

Why,  are  not  Tenth  Editions  still  more  rare? 
Mine  are!    Why  are  they  not  worth  even  more? 


xcv 

And  much  as  Art  has  play'd  the  Infidel 
And  robb'd  me  of  my  Royalties — Ah,  well, 

I  often  wonder  what  the  Women  read 
One  half  as  clever  as  the  Stuff  I  sell ! 


XCVI 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  come  to  bring  our  Woes! 
That  Christmas  Season's  Sales  should  ever  close! 
The  Book  whose  praises  loud  the  Critic  sang. 
Is  not  the  one  that  sells  the  most,  God  knows ! 


30  THE     RUBAIYAT     OF 


XCVII 

Would  but  these  Book  Reviewers  ever  yield 
One  glimpse — if  dimly,  yet  indeed,  reveal'd 

Of  w^hat  the  fainting  Traveller  can  read 
iWorth  reading — but  the  Critic's  eyes  are  seal'd. 


XCVIII 

Would  but  some  v^^inged  Angel  bring  the  News 
Of  Critic  who  reads  Books  that  he  Reviews! 

And  make  the  stern  Reviewer  do  as  well 
Himself,  before  he  Meed  of  Praise  refuse! 


XCIX 

Ah,  Love!  could  you  and  I  perchance  succeed 
In  boiling  down  the  Million  Books  we  read 

Into  One  Book,  and  edit  that  a  Bit — 
There'd  be  a  World's  Best  Literature^  indeed ! 


OMAR    CAYENNE  31- 


Oh,  rising  Author,  read  Me  once  again 
Before  my  Memory  gradually  wane! 

How  oft  hereafter  you  may  look  for  me 
In  this  same  Library — and  look  in  vain  I 


CI 

And  when,  dear  Reader,  you  shall  chance  to  spend 
A  night  within  The  Hall  of  Fame — attend ! 

If,  in  that  blissful  call,  you  find  the  Spot 
iWhere  I  broke  in — don't  turn  me  down,  my  friend! 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


